D.A.H.R. Part Two: "For My Par'machkai"
by Trillgirl
Summary: The sequel to "Coping" and the second story in the "Death Avenged, Honor Restored" series. Worf tries to follow through with his plans to avenge Jadzia's death, but runs into some trouble along the way.


Disclaimer: Deep Space Nine and the Deep Space Nine characters belong to Paramount. I'm just using them in my story. This story is dedicated to Terry Farrell and Michael Dorn, the two wonderful people who brought the beautiful union of Dax and Worf to life.   
  
  
"Death Avenged, Honor Restored"  
Part Two of Four  
"For My Parmach'kai"  
  
/ The beautiful sun of Casperia Prime welcomed Jadzia and Worf into the morning. The Klingon opened his eyes first. He lay contentedly still, watching Jadzia sleep. Her eyelashes cast delicate shadows over her sculpted cheekbones; the corners of her full lips turned up in the last traces of a smile that lingered on her face from the night before. The silken brown waves of her hair were spread out on the pillows underneath her head. Worf gently traced the string of enticing spots on her neck with his thumb. He loved to watch his parmach'kai at rest like this. She looked so immaculate, with her creamy, absolutely unblemished complexion and pattern of spots which added an exotically beautiful touch. Yet she hid multiple centuries' worth of experiences. Jadzia certainly did not look old, and physically she was not. That was impossible, for she was slender, gracefully curved, and possessed an athlete's firm, well-toned muscles. But the symbiont dwelling inside her was ancient and wise. When Worf looked deeply into her eyes, sometimes he could sense Dax's presence. He gazed out the window, where the sun was casting its first rays of morning light over the glistening ocean. It had been Jadzia's idea to request a hotel room on the very top floor, where the view of the beach would be the best.   
  
Then he heard a soft sigh, and felt movement against the arm on which her head lay. As Worf glanced down at her, the lovely Trill's eyes fluttered open. She blinked a moment, disoriented, and then looked up at him and smiled. No words were needed; they could see the excitement in each other's eyes. Three weeks of their honeymoon lay ahead, bringing endless possibilities. They lay still for almost another hour after that, drifting in and out of sleep, just enjoying the warmth of the sun and each other and being able to actually sleep in. Finally Jadzia murmured, " I can't believe it."  
"What?" She propped herself up on one elbow and grinned delightedly. "We're finally here!" Their gazes met. She laughed out of sheer delight and allowed herself to be drawn closer to him for a fierce kiss before asking, "You want to get up?" He pulled a strand of hair from behind her ear and looped it between his fingers.  
"Not particularly."  
"Come on, Worf. I'm hungry."  
"So am I." From the look in his eyes, Jadzia could tell he wasn't talking about food. She rolled her eyes.   
"Didn't you get your fill of that last night, parmach'kai? I'm getting up. I want to go down on the beach." The Klingon let her pull away. Jadzia rolled out of bed and wriggled into her nightgown, which had been carelessly tossed on the floor the night before. Worf watched her go. It was amazing that they'd been able to get away for their honeymoon, especially with the war going on. But Captain Sisko had managed to get them the time, and here they were on Casperia, free at last. For a few weeks, at least. /  
  
  
When Worf walked into Ops, Sisko, Nog, Rom, O'Brien, and his team of engineers were already gathered in the wardroom, despite the fact that he himself was slightly early. "Good morning, Commander," said Sisko as he entered.  
"Good morning, Captain. Chief, Lieutenants, Ensign," Worf replied. "Shall we begin?"  
"Have a seat," said Sisko, taking his chair at the head of the table. Nog seated himself next to Worf and handed him a PADD containing the familiar schematic of the weapons system. O'Brien stepped up to the computer display screen on the wall.  
"As you all know, the master differential relay for our weapons was damaged when, after a repair, an isolinear chip was inserted improperly. With something like this it's impossible to tell when it happened, although we think it was recently. The relay has been removed, but can't be fixed. No Starfleet ship currently docked here or in the immediate vicinity has a spare and I wouldn't count on the Ninth fleet arriving in time to give us one, so we're stuck. Any ideas?" The room was silent for a few seconds before Ensign Walker suggested the obvious:  
"What about modifying, say, a transporter relay to fit the specifications?"  
"We've already got someone on it," replied O'Brien, "but there's a very slim chance it'll work. It's never been done before, and there's just not enough time to fiddle around with experiments. We need something that's guaranteed to function correctly." Sisko steepled his fingers and asked,  
"Mr. Worf, what is the position of the nearest Dominion fleet?" The Klingon quickly consulted a PADD.   
"They are eighteen light years away, sir. About four days." Worf was a little dismayed that he hadn't been able to recite the fact off the top of his head. It was part of the duty of every good Starfleet officer to memorize critical information and have it at their disposal. Since the previous night, though, it had been hard to concentrate on anything. Anything, that is, except Jadzia and how much he missed her. He knew nothing could be done to bring her back, but Worf was going to do everything within and beyond his power to ensure that her memory remained honorable. And that entailed avenging her death. Gul Dukat deserved to feel the life slowly and painfully drain from his weakening body. That Cardassian deserved what he had inflicted. This would require meticulous planning. Worf didn't think Sisko would approve of his wanting to track down Dukat, and wasn't going to risk asking. The less anyone knew of this, the better. He didn't know yet how he was going to get off the station or find the Cardassian. His planning was interrupted, though, by annoying events like duty shifts, conferences, and this meeting. Giving up was not an option. There had to be a way.  
  
After another hour of unfruitful brainstorming, Sisko called for a short break. As they were filing out into Ops, the captain called Worf back. He waited until the door had whisked shut again before asking,  
"Since we seem to be getting nowhere relying on only Starfleet components, what about using a relay from a different type of ship?"  
"A Klingon ship, sir?"  
"Yes. Or Romulan, if need be." Worf considered this.  
"It is a possibility. Some minor adjustments may be required, though." Sisko shrugged.  
"That's to be expected in a situation like this. Go down to the Rotarran and ask if General Martok has a relay we could use." Worf nodded.  
"Yes, sir." He turned and went into Ops, crossed the room, and entered the turbolift. "Docking ring." The lift began its journey, and hadn't been moving for more than fifteen seconds when it slowed, stopped, and opened to admit another passenger. Worf immediately straightened up when he saw who it was.  
"Promenade," ordered the newcomer, and smiled companionably at him. "Hello, Worf."  
"Hello, Ezri." They stood in awkward silence as the lift continued, each with words on the tips of their tongues but not ready or brave enough to say them. When Worf glanced over at her out of the corner of his eye, he had to look down slightly. It had not been that way with Jadzia. She was his height, making her a perfect sparring partner. Of course their weights had differed, giving him a slight advantage, but her slender figure and smaller mass had given her superb maneuverability and agility. Her ability to duck out of his way had cost him many battles.  
  
The Klingon was never sure how to act around Ezri. He wouldn't go so far as to say he distrusted her, but it made him slightly uncomfortable to be around her. Worf had bared his heart and soul to Jadzia, sharing every fiber of his being with her. She had done the same, trusting him completely and faithfully. Now that Ezri had her memories, this new woman whom he hadn't invited or wanted in his life was standing beside him, aware of all his thoughts, beliefs, and feelings. This angered Worf. Why had she stayed on Deep Space Nine instead of returning to the Destiny? She had no right to be here, no connection to anyone on the station except through her predecessor. Was she judging him? Worf could never be sure. Ezri got along well with the other officers on the station, and she spent a lot of time with Colonel Kira and Doctor Bashir. The crew seemed to take comfort in the fact that a part of Jadzia remained, but only Worf felt taunted by it. A precious part of his parmach'kai hovered just out of reach, with no way to it.  
  
Ezri was standing as if at attention, her hands clasped behind her back, a gesture reminiscent of the way Jadzia had unconsciously positioned herself. Her image mingled with his wife's in Worf's mind. Sometimes he would see only Jadzia, and fight against the urge to slip his arms around her waist and draw her close. There were the times where Jadzia's face would shimmer into existence, then he would blink, and Ezri would reclaim her pixie features. And then he saw only Ezri, accompanied by a confusing mixture of anger and suspicion and surprising loneliness. For the mere mention of the name Dax invoked the biting desolation that he felt every night when he climbed into bed alone. Why was Ezri doing this to him? Was she aware that she was?  
  
As the turbolift carried them to their respective destinations, Ezri Dax felt a familiar pang of emotion. A painful longing, dulled somewhat by the knowledge that the feelings in actuality were not really hers, but painful nonetheless. She remembered the way it had felt to be close to Worf, to allow her hands to outline each firm, powerful muscle on his body. He would use his skilled fingers to massage the knots gently out of her shoulders and back. These everyday rituals had often given way to much more intimate explorations. Each occurrence of their lovemaking was a declaration of their commitment, passion, and dedication to each other. Her love for him-no, Jadzia's, Jadzia's, Ezri emphasized forcefully in her mind- had flooded her so deeply that no word or action could show it. Worf was the most amazing person she had ever known. He fit so perfectly into what had been the empty notches in her life. Jadzia and Worf were synonymous with two pieces of a puzzle, one part melding into another, making up for one area in which the other lacked. When one puzzle piece was missing, the empty area was what stood out. Another similar piece could be substituted, but nothing fit as well as the original section.  
  
Worf couldn't seem to understand that Ezri didn't want to be more than simply friends. He was very uptight around her, she noticed, and answered even the most companionable questions brusquely, as if letting down his guard infinitesimally would be hinting at his desire for a more intimate relationship. Inconspicuously peering at him in her periphery, Ezri studied his face and was struck by a jolt of emotion. She was always startled by how deeply some of Jadzia's memories affected her. Gazing at the Klingon's stony (nervous?) face and set jaw, a person never would have guessed that he was capable of loving as tenderly as he had Jadzia. ("You come first. Before career, before duty, before anything.") She was jealous sometimes; wanted the memories of being unconditionally adored to be her own. Not necessarily by Worf. That would oppose Trill customs, and he obviously wasn't the one for her anyway. She was a little bit frightened of him, of the way that a furious flame would smolder and ignite behind his eyes whenever Jadzia's and Gul Dukat's names were mentioned in the same conversation. Just someone, someone to be waiting in her quarters at the end of the day with a smile and a kiss and a bottle of champagne. But Ezri was young. Her life had barely begun. She had plenty of time.  
  
Ezri turned to Worf and forced a smile. "How are you, Worf?" she asked. He blinked, startled, then replied quickly,  
"I am doing well, thank you." After a pause: "And you?"  
"Fine, thanks." There. The ice had been broken. "Where are you headed?" Ezri attempted feebly to continue the conversation.   
"The Rotarran." The turbolift slowed suddenly, and the doors parted. Worf stepped out of the turbolift a little too fast. "Good day, Lieutenant." She gave a mental sigh. Oh, well. They would get other chances to talk. He was probably just preoccupied.  
"Bye." She lost sight of him as the lift doors shut. In the corridor, Worf turned and headed in the direction of the docking ring. Seeing Ezri had reminded him of the painfully realistic dream he'd had the night before. He had been on Casperia Prime with Jadzia, enjoying the first day of their honeymoon. When he awoke in his cold, lonely bed in his quarters, he had actually turned towards what had been Jadzia's side of the bed, expecting to see her nestled under the fur blanket next to him. Their times in bed had been unique. Not just when they were making love, but also when they would just talk. Snuggled under the covers together, the world seemed to come to a stop around them. There would be no war, no stress, no death. Just the two of them, in their timeless universe. They could laugh, cry, dream, and nothing would interrupt them. / The day had been hectic and the conferences long, but none of that mattered now. When Worf entered the room, clad in the loose green pants and shirt that served as his pajamas, everything stressful seemed to recede from Jadzia's memory and be tucked away in its own secret haven in her consciousness, where not even she would be aware of their existence until they surfaced again next morning.   
"Hello, Jadzia," he greeted her as he knelt before his shrine to Kahless.   
"Hi," she replied, and fell respectfully silent as the Klingon began to pray. Jadzia watched him as he silently communicated his thoughts to the ancient god of his people. Nighttime was special for him, too. It was the time of day where he could let down his guard and not have to concentrate on matters of war and combat. The presence of another body pressed against his was comforting to him, even though he may not have used those exact words. When he finished praying, he got to his feet and came over, sliding under the covers with a fatigued look on his face. Jadzia was automatically in his arms before he'd had time to pull their blanket over them. She leaned up quickly to kiss the side of his neck and then settled down against him with her head on his shoulder.   
"Are you tired?" she asked. Worf rubbed his hand over her upper arm.  
"A little."  
"Me, too. I had a long day. So many reports due, so many meetings, so many things to think about. Next free chance we get we're heading to Risa."  
"Are you sure about that?" The Klingon gazed down at his wife, cuddled in the curve of his arm. He knew she remembered as well as he did their disastrous vacation on the "paradise planet" before their wedding and the war. When she didn't respond, he changed the subject by lightly kissing the top of her head.  
"You look exquisite tonight, Jadzia." She smiled.  
"Nice try, Worf, but I'm exhausted. If you even attempt to make love to me I'll be dead within five minutes."  
"Are you sure?"  
"Tomorrow," she promised, planting her lips firmly on his nose. "Right now I just need to sleep."  
"Very well." She favored him with one last relieved smile.  
"Thank you." Jadzia kissed him long and slow, as if to apologize, then rolled over in his arms so her back was resting against his stomach. The Trill was asleep before either of them could say another word. / But right now he needed to put all thoughts of Jadzia and Ezri and the past out of his mind. Captain Sisko had assigned him a task, and he was responsible for seeing it through. Worf emerged from the corridor and began to walk around the docking ring to where the Rotarran was fitted snugly into the station's docking clamps. Two Ferengi, whom the Klingon recognized as some of Quark's waiters, hovered outside the airlock to a Bajoran merchant vessel, springing to attention when the door rolled aside and a tall figure in layered green and black robes appeared. The three huddled instantly together, looking suspicious. Worf expected the efficient Odo to be on the scene within minutes, or, if the Ferengi and their consort weren't worthy of his immediate attention, to send one or two of his deputies to handle the situation. The Rotarran was docked four ports down from the merchant ship. The engineer, N'Garan, was kneeling just inside the open airlock door with a scanning device in her hand. She looked up at his approach.  
"Yes?"  
"Is General Martok on board?"  
"No."  
"Where is he?" Worf inquired impatiently. N'Garan, who was young and rebellious, was not fazed by his tone.  
"On the Promenade, probably at Quark's. He should be back soon."  
"I will wait."  
"If you wish." The girl turned back to her work. For lack of anything better to do, Worf observed the data readouts over her armor-plated shoulder. N'Garan told him what he was looking for without him even having to ask.  
"Our cloaking device is malfunctioning. We are having abnormal power fluctuations that cause the ship to cloak and uncloak at random moments. The Rotarran was almost destroyed three days ago when the cloak failed and revealed us just as we were about to ambush a Jem'Hadar warship." Worf suggested,  
"Chief O'Brien has had experience with cloaking devices, especially the Defiant's. You might consider asking him for advice. Or Senator Pulchek. His warbird is outfitted with a top-of-the-line cloaking device that gives them no trouble."  
"I will have her look into it." A new voice from behind them caused the two Klingons to turn as one. General Martok was coming up the set of steps that led to the airlock, clutching a bottle of bloodwine, his metal-toed boots scraping the treads of the stairs. "Do you wish to speak to me, my friend?"  
"Yes. We have need of-." Martok cut him off.   
"Not here, Worf. Come aboard." Worf complied, stepping carefully over the now prone N'Garan. "May I offer you some refreshment?" the General offered, and raised his bottle as they traversed the bird-of-prey's gray-walled corridors. "Year 2309, sent to me by Sirella. The woman has good taste, doesn't she?"  
"A good year," agreed Worf. "But I will decline." Martok shrugged and took a long swig. They stepped onto the bridge. The command center of the mighty Rotarran was dimly lit with red lights that cast an eerie glow on the consoles and faces of the crew, giving the impression that everything was glazed in blood. The grim expressions on their faces only added to that image. The two of them crossed the bridge and went into Martok's office. Only when the door had closed securely behind them did the General begin to speak.  
"Now, Worf," he began, "what did you want to ask?"  
"We have need of a master differential relay for our weapons, as ours has been damaged and no longer functions properly. Since a Starfleet issue relay is unavailable, Captain Sisko thought it might be possible to convert a relay from a bird-of-prey to fit the specifications we have. Would you or any of your ships have an extra relay or know where we could get one?" Martok furrowed his brows.  
"I'm not sure." Turning to a control panel on the wall behind his desk, he tapped a few buttons and called up an inventory list. He scanned it, mumbling to himself. Finally he turned back to Worf and reported,  
"The only relay we have on board is currently in use. The same holds true for every ship in my fleet. I apologize, my friend." Worf cursed inwardly, dreading having to report to Sisko with this unsatisfactory news, but only nodded his thanks and made his way back across the bridge and through the corridors until he had passed the laboring N'Garan again and was on the docking ring. Sure enough, a tan-clad Bajoran security officer was standing behind a tall stack of bulky gray shipping crates, carefully monitoring the conversation between the Ferengi and their mysterious companion. Worf was frustrated that he had not been able to find the needed part. When he returned to Ops, the captain, O'Brien, Rom, and the other officers were gathered in the briefing room continuing their discussion. All heads turned as the doors parted for him.  
"Well, Mr. Worf?" inquired Sisko. "Any luck?"  
"No, sir." O'Brien sighed in the background. "Neither General Martok nor any of his crew had one." Sisko looked annoyed.  
"Damn!" Worf started to apologize, but stopped when Sisko held up both hands.  
"Never mind, Commander, sit down. I ordered some raktajinos; Quark should be bringing them shortly." Worf sat, and in a few moments the Ferengi came in balancing a tray of steaming mugs. Ignoring him as he distributed the drinks, Sisko asked,  
"Has anyone thought of replicating a new relay?"  
"That was the first thing that came to mind, sir," answered O'Brien. "Unfortunately, the replication system aboard DS9 is Starfleet issue. The relay is Cardassian-made. We had to replace some of the relays-."  
"Transporter and Environmental Control," interrupted Nog.  
"- about two years ago. The weapons weren't our top priority."  
"We should just ask the Cardassians if they have an extra part on hand," Quark remarked sarcastically as he left the room.  
"You know," said O'Brien thoughtfully, "that's not such a bad idea." Everyone looked at him incredulously. He explained,  
"We could send a salvage team to Empok Nor. Even if the relay isn't in perfect shape, it might be repairable." Nog cringed at the words "Empok Nor." He'd had some very bad experiences on the abandoned space station, identical to Deep Space Nine except for the name, on an earlier salvage mission when he was still a cadet. They'd been stalked by two ruthless rogue Cardassians who'd been in stasis for years for the sole purpose of standing sentinel for a station they hadn't wanted in the first place. If they can't have it, you can't either, thought Nog. Garak, who'd come along on the mission to disarm booby traps left behind when their forces pulled out, was accidentally injected with a psychotropic drug. The Cardassian soldiers that had been left behind were under the influence of the same drug. The entire Starfleet team, excepting Nog and O'Brien, had been murdered either by the crazed Garak or an equally frenzied soldier. O'Brien had been forced to set a trap using a modified phaser as a bomb in disguise when Nog was captured by Garak, who threatened to kill him. With the Cardassian unconscious, they sent out a distress call and were rescued by the end of the day by the Defiant. The Ferengi considered himself as brave as anyone, but he was silently hoping he wouldn't be chosen for the mission. Sisko was pondering the suggestion.  
"How much risk would be involved, Chief?"  
"It would be considerably dangerous, sir. I wouldn't recommend sending the Defiant with the large rendezvous of Dominion troops at Cardassia, so whoever went would have to take a runabout. They'd have lesser warp capability and the disadvantage of smaller weapons. It's going to be pretty risky crossing into Dominion territory without a cloak."  
"I say it would be worth the risk. We need that relay," said Sisko. "Any negative reactions?" No one spoke. "All right. Next order of business: the salvage team." He noted Nog's instant tension and decided to give him a break. "Ensign Nog is needed on DS9." The Ferengi sighed in relief, thinking no one saw. Sisko understood. " Chief O'Brien, you should remain here to continue making modifications and running tests on our modified relays in the holosuite. Ensigns Walker and Shelby, you're both under consideration. Mr. Worf, it looks like you'll be taking a trip." The Klingon nodded.  
"Yes, sir. When do I leave?"  
"As soon as we get the team together, I'd say probably tomorrow. Any questions?" asked the captain. No response. "Good. Dismissed." They all went back to their posts. At Tactical with nothing to do, Worf began to think. In his mind the layout of the station was clearly mapped. Once on board, it should be easy to get into the central core. The real problem would be trying to avoid detection from Dominion patrols. If only the runabouts had cloaking devices! All of a sudden, a completely unbidden image rose in his mind. Gul Dukat was leering at him, gloating. He may have projected the exteriority that all he wanted was peace in the universe, that he would have given anything to be seen for who he really was, a "kind, gentle man who deeply regretted his actions during the Occupation." But Worf knew better than to believe his act. Dukat was exactly like all the other Cardassians: power-hungry, bloodthirsty, always needing to feel that they were superior to someone, even if it was just a peaceful people like the Bajorans, who would have gladly shared their world with them without them having to barge in with their savage soldiers and brutal overseers. The bastards had turned the innocent occupants of Bajor into a race of cowering slaves. And overseeing it all was Gul Dukat. He'd organized the torture and slaughter, showing no remorse or guilt for what he was doing. It had been his idea to have his Bajoran slaves construct Deep Space Nine, known then as Terok Nor, an ore-processing center. The ones who'd been lucky enough to escape murder or slavery fled into the hills, forming bands of resistance fighters and operating on an underground, not caring what happened to them as long as they could take their world back. No one was immune to the fighting. Men, women, religious figures, even children as young as ten armed themselves and prepared to drive the Cardassians off their precious planet. It took thirty years and the slaughter of countless millions, but the Bajorans finally prevailed. The damage was catastrophic even after the last soldier had departed on a shuttle. Fields and towns smoldered, having been burned to the ground. The rich ore deposits had been completely stripped from the soil. Over a third of Bajor's population lay dead and unburied like a macabre carpet of corpses. The mental condition of the fighters, most of them at war for the majority of their lives, was forever scarred. Then had begun the slow and painstaking process of rebuilding. A proud people at one time, capable of surviving without any outside subvention, they had been forced to turn to the Federation for assistance. The Federation had eagerly agreed, and sent out Commander Benjamin Sisko to assume a joint command with Major Kira Nerys. During the last seven years, Bajor had once again began to prosper, and was now back on its feet with a vengeance. But the Bajorans, religious as most of them were, would never be able to forgive the Cardassians for what they'd done. And least of all Gul Dukat. At the mention of the word "evil" his face was conjured up in their minds as a greedy man who gave no thought to anything except his own fiendish desires. To add insult to injury, in the past year Dukat had mysteriously converted to worshipping the Pagh'wraiths, the dreaded nemeses of the Prophets. The Cardassian had set up a temple on Empok Nor, which he had recently abandoned when his followers turned against him thanks to the intervention of Colonel Kira. He had led a cult devoted to the evil "gods" of Bajor, which only added to the list of injustices that the Bajorans had accumulated against him. He would never have their forgiveness, no matter how much he tried to justify it by saying that the Cardassians would have been perfectly fair rulers if the Bajorans had submitted and given them a chance. And he would never have Worf's. Dukat had destroyed another world when Jadzia had breathed her last, shuddering breath in his arms that day almost four months ago. The impact of that loss would remain with him forever. But Worf, being Klingon, refused to sit around and feel sorry for himself. A respectful amount of time had passed for him to grieve, and now it was time to take action. Gul Dukat was going to die.  
  
The first step, Worf schemed in his mind as he stood at the Tactical console, was to find a way off the station. He knew he couldn't just walk into Sisko's office and say, "Excuse me, Captain, I need to avenge Jadzia's death and track down the psychotic cult leader who murdered her. Will you give me a runabout so I can go off during the middle of a war, risk detection, and possibly be killed while trying to honor the memory of the woman I loved?" That wouldn't work. But leaving DS9 should be easy enough. Sisko was practically endorsing his quest by sending him to Empok Nor. The only problem was that he had been assigned to a mission and couldn't run off without completing it. Oh, well. Those details could be worked out en route if time didn't permit planning ahead. Then he had to locate Dukat. There had been a rumor going around recently that he had gone back to the Dominion and, renouncing any loyalty to the Pagh'wraiths, put on such a convincing act of repentance that they had given him a position commanding a ship: the Vor'Nak. True, it wasn't the position of head of the Cardassian government, which Gul Damar now held in his place, but he was back in power and that made him even more dangerous. When Worf got off duty, he would have to do some research and see if there was any truth behind the rumor. The actual killing didn't require much thought at the moment, but more detailed planning would be necessary when the time drew near. It was almost impossible to tell how he was going to do it without knowing what kinds of resources Dukat would have or who would be backing him up. A voice cut into his thoughts.  
"Commander?" He looked up to see Ensign Walker standing at his side.  
"Yes, Ensign?" She gave him an odd look that said The lights are on but no one's home. He'd been getting that a lot lately, with his mind so far away.  
"It's my shift, sir. I'll take over."  
"Of course." The Klingon stepped back quickly and let her take his place, then left Ops and went to his quarters. / Worf entered his quarters, already removing his metal-woven sash. He paused in the middle of unhooking it when a loud chorus of childish babble met his ears. Jadzia grinned at him from the couch.  
"Hi! We have a little visitor!" she announced as she scooped Kirayoshi O'Brien up from where he'd been playing on the floor. Worf couldn't contain a paternal smile as he sat down.  
"And what exactly is this infant doing in my home?" he asked playfully, sharing Jadzia's delight.  
"Well, I offered to watch him so that the O'Briens could spend some time with Molly." Kirayoshi wriggled out of her grip and toddled over to an overstuffed chair. Worf looked at his beautiful wife.  
"I thought you said you were going to be working tonight." Jadzia nodded.   
"I was planning to run a spectral scan of the comet that's passing through the Denorius Belt. But if I did that," she added, glancing at Yoshi as he hung on the chair with a gleeful grin on his face, "who'd watch you?"  
"Me!" Worf declared suddenly, surprising even himself. Jadzia gave him an appreciative smile and answered, maybe too quickly,  
"That's all right. I want to stay with him."  
"Jadzia, you have been waiting for this comet to come into sensor range for weeks." The Klingon urged her with his eyes to take advantage of the situation, but she looked at him, at Yoshi, then back and him and sighed,  
"There'll be other comets."  
"Go," Worf insisted. "I will take care of Yoshi." They looked at the youngest O'Brien as he grabbed a handful of his favorite teddy bear's ear and tossed it on the floor.  
"Worf, that's very sweet," Jadzia said, "but let's face it. You're not good with babies."  
Worf was indignant.  
"I raised Alexander!" he shot back challengingly.  
"That's different," argued the Trill. "He was four years old when he moved in with you. You didn't have to change diapers. Babies are a handful. I should know; I've had nine of 'em." Worf rolled his eyes, indicating he'd heard that particular line one too many times.  
"I know. Five as a mother, four as a father. I can handle a fourteen-month-old child." Jadzia hastily replied,   
"I didn't say you can't, I-." but was interrupted with Worf's  
"Fine. Go run your sensor scans." He got up from the couch and retrieved Yoshi from his chair. The baby immediately began to scream and twisted towards Jadzia with an imploring look that said, We were having a perfectly good time until he came along! Why are you leaving me with him?   
"You're holding him wrong," she chided.  
"Leave us," Worf commanded. The Trill held up a placatory hand.  
"All right, all right. I'm leaving." She got up and walked out without a backward glance. Worf turned to Kirayoshi, still wailing, and spoke softly to him in Klingon. When that didn't succeed, he picked up a rattle and began waving it in front of the baby. Immediately transfixed, Yoshi stopped crying and reached for the rattle. Worf handed it to him and was relieved to have him wiggle off his lap and run unsteadily over to the chair to play. The Klingon watched him and thought, Yoshi is a wonderful child, but what would Jadzia's and my baby look like? Would he or she have my ridges? Her spots? Both? He suspected that Jadzia was also wondering about it and yearning for them to have a child of their own. She hadn't mentioned it to him yet, but if he knew her she was testing him, seeing if he had what it took to be a father. He was determined to prove to her that he did. / Worf ordered a raktajino from the replicator before sitting at the console built into the desk. After a brief thought, he commanded,  
"Computer, display all recent information on Cardassian Gul Dukat." The emotionless voice of the computer inquired,  
"Specify time period."  
"Six months." There was a brief pause as the computer scanned its memory banks. Worf sipped his raktajino. He instantly felt a wave of burning enmity as the face of Jadzia's cold-blooded murderer appeared on the screen, wearing a sardonic smirk. The Klingon longed to feel his mek'leth in his hands, the worn leather grip slick with sweat, and sense the recently sharpened tip of the blade penetrate the chink in Dukat's armor between the metal plates of his uniform and his scaly, corded neck. And then to feel his thick skin part as the lethal weapon plunged inside, tore his muscles beyond repair, severed the veins that kept him breathing. Rivers of blood would flow then, crimson rivers of the precious fluid supplying life to one who only used that power to kill.   
Worf, vowing to himself that the day would be soon when revenge would be exacted, scanned the readouts next to Dukat's photo. It seemed that Dukat had indeed returned to the Dominion and received a command. Bajoran sources claimed that he had been sending mysterious coded transmissions to the home of a known Pagh'wraith worshipper living in Dakhur Province, which led Worf to suspect that he had not in fact abandoned the Pagh'wraiths but simply hid his beliefs while he acquired a ship for his own purposes and not to serve the Dominion. Starfleet Intelligence reports gave no indication to Dukat's whereabouts, so he was on his own in that area. If only he could take the Defiant, which with its cloaking capabilities would make it so much easier to go behind enemy lines. Then he had an ingenious idea. What if Romulan senator Cretak loaned him a cloaking device? Since the Rotarran's cloaking device was malfunctioning, he had nowhere to turn but to them. It wouldn't look suspicious if Sisko approved of its use for the master differential relay mission, and it wouldn't be necessary to dishonor himself by lying to Cretak about why he needed it. Worf tapped his comm badge. "Worf to O'Brien."  
"O'Brien here."  
"Would a Romulan cloaking device function on a runabout?"  
"I don't see why not," said O'Brien. "It works on the Defiant." He paused, then asked,  
"You're thinking about getting a cloak to go to Empok Nor, aren't you?"  
"Yes." Worf smiled to himself. Even one of his oldest friends hadn't guessed his true reason for wanting the cloaking device. This was going to work out beautifully. "I will be speaking with Senator Cretak after I take the idea to the captain. I will contact you again later."  
"Great. O'Brien out." Worf hit his badge a second time.  
"Worf to Sisko." After a short delay, during which Worf could hear the faint background noise in Ops, he responded,  
"Yes, Commander?"  
"I would like your permission to ask Senator Cretak to borrow a cloaking device for the Empok Nor mission." Sisko didn't answer right away.  
"Is it compatible with our systems?"  
"Chief O'Brien said that since we have a Romulan cloaking device on the Defiant, there's no reason why it shouldn't work on a runabout."  
"Well then, that's excellent. Contact Cretak as soon as possible."  
"Yes, sir. Worf out." A short conversation with the Romulan senator proved very worthwhile. Cretak hated the Dominion as much as any Klingon, so it didn't take much convincing to persuade her to loan him the cloak. After that was done, he contacted O'Brien again. The chief was only too happy to send someone down to the warbird to pick up the cloaking device and install it in the Shenandoah, the runabout that Worf was to take out the next day. Now that that was taken care of, Worf could relax. / Jadzia was just taking her hair out of its customary ponytail when the Klingon entered their bedroom. "You're not ready yet," Worf said, surprised. The Trill turned toward him, an apologetic smile on her face.  
"It's not my fault. I was reading and lost track of time." When Worf began to speak again, she interrupted, "I know, I know, we have dinner reservations at 1930. But you're not exactly ready yourself." He looked down at his uniform, impeccable as always.  
"Yes I am."  
"Worf!" Jadzia protested. "Wear a tuxedo. Please? I love to see you dressed up formally." He decided to change the subject and hopefully get away from the fact that he hated to wear suits and felt out of place in public whenever he did.  
"What are you wearing?" She tossed her uniform jacket on the bed and went to the closet, hitting the keypad. After rummaging around, she finally pulled out a dress Worf had never seen before. It was long and silver, with an arrangement of sparkling diamonds on the front in the shape of a rose.  
"Garak delivered it this afternoon," she informed him.  
"Put it on." Worf suddenly had a burning desire to see the dress on Jadzia. She sensed it and pointed toward the door.   
" Out. You can't see until I'm completely finished." He obediently went into the living room and waited. All day he'd been looking forward to this evening. At first he'd wanted to go out to dinner to celebrate the success of a mission into Dominion space to destroy a major weapon production center on a moon. He'd thought Jadzia, who seemed almost Klingon at times, would understand his desire to triumph over this special occasion. That's why he'd been surprised when she came to him and, before he'd even finished his suggestion, kissed him deeply and told him to keep work out of their personal lives whenever possible. So the two of them were just having a special evening to celebrate being together.  
Worf didn't hear the bedroom door open and was startled by the exquisite vision of perfection that appeared before him. He rose to his feet and reached out for Jadzia's hands, intertwining her fingers with his own as he devoured the sight of his parmach'kai. Her hair hung down to her bare shoulders, brushed back and secured on both sides by tiny clips encrusted with diamonds. The iridescent silver material of the gown was somewhat translucent, revealing the shapely curves of her hips and the outlines of the muscles on her long, slender legs. It clung to her slender body in all the right places, held up by some means Worf couldn't figure out. Perhaps further exploration...but that would come later. The dress was strapless, and the generous sprinkling of spots on her neck and upper chest was plainly visible. The low-cut neck revealed a little more than might have been appropriate for a simple dinner outing, but Worf wasn't about to complain. She was so lovely, so divine, that he could think of nothing else but how wonderful she was and how fantastic it was to be married to a woman who understood him and appreciated him for who he was and how he loved her.  
"You look gorgeous tonight." Suddenly he picked her up and kissed her, his unexpected embrace taking her breath away. When he let her up for air, he asked quietly, "Do you want to skip dinner?"  
"You wish," Jadzia gasped, laughing. "Go change." She laid a deft finger on his instantly protesting lips. "Go." The Trill wriggled out of his arms and pressed her lips against his once more before shoving him in the direction of the bedroom. He went somewhat unwillingly, but didn't argue. As he put on the tuxedo, he regarded himself in the mirror and had to admit that he didn't look all that bad. Jadzia's face, framed by a delicate curtain of brown hair, broke into an approving smile when he went back out into the main part of their quarters. "You look very handsome."   
"I disagree." She sighed, exasperated.   
"You're hopeless." She took his arm, feeling the swell of his muscle under his shirt sleeve. "Let's go." / Sleep wasn't too appealing to Worf just now. He wanted to be out in action, not laying around uselessly waiting. He could find nothing to occupy him in his silent, desolate quarters, so he went to the wall and, taking down his silver bat'leth, went to the holosuite. Quark's bar seemed to be deserted, except for Bashir and O'Brien, who were otherwise engaged in a game of darts and didn't hear him come in. The Ferengi proprietor confronted him as he went up the spiralling metal stairs to the second level of the bar.   
"I don't believe you scheduled holosuite time, Commander." Worf shoved his way past Quark, holding his weapon against his chest.  
"I did not."  
"Walk-ins pay extra," Quark called after him.  
"I do not care." Holosuite Three was empty. The Klingon went inside and announced after locking the door, "Computer, run program Jadzia-three-seven-one." The atmosphere of jungle that appeared around him had been Jadzia's program at first, before they were married. She had designed it herself, using the images of Curzon's old Klingon friends, Kor, Kang, and Koloth, as the programmed adversaries. When Worf accompanied her on one occasion and agreed it was invigorating to do battle against such worthy, famed opponents, she had allowed him to use the program whenever he liked.  
With a deep- throated roar of challenge, the holographic Kor burst out of the trees behind him, wielding a bat'leth similar to his own. This Kor was young, with long, wild hair the same deep brown as Jadzia's and bulging muscles protruding from under his body armor. Worf had recently been on a mission with the real Kor. Physically he looked quite different. His hair was now a pure silver, revealing none of the mahogany shade of his youth. The old Klingon's face was hard and lined with wrinkles of age and the stress of many battles, but in his eyes still gleamed the love of combat and the lust to prove himself once more. Worf swung his weapon up, and the two blades crashed together with a satisfying resonance. Feeling a surge of vigorousness empower his body, he parried the next oncoming blow and twisted Kor's momentum back at him, causing the "younger" Klingon to stumble backwards. Kor regained his balance and swung at Worf, but he was ready. His bat'leth tore Kor's out of his hands and sent it spinning across the dirt floor of the jungle. Dropping his weapon so he wouldn't be fighting an unarmed man, proving himself dishonorable, he lunged at his opponent and seized him around his thick neck. The pair of Klingons grappled for a moment before Worf launched a well-placed uppercut that snapped Kor's head back and knocked him to the ground, unconscious. The commander stepped back, sweat running in rivulets off his face and neck, and regarded the inert body of his opponent. He was amazed at how refreshed he felt, how much of a release it had been to be able to lash out with all his concealed fury. Hopefully he would be able to use this when he was face to face with Dukat.  
Back in his quarters, Worf donned his dark green pants and shirt and lay in bed. Contrary to his expectations, he slept almost immediately.  
  
The next morning possessed an aura of tingling excitement, like his adoptive Human brother Nikolai might have felt on Christmas morning. A feeling that something special was about to happen. Worf sprang out of bed, energized and ready. Last night's holosuite visit had done wonders for his overloaded mind. After dressing, he went to the wall next to the window and took down his mek'leth, carefully slipping it into his boot and yanking his pants leg down to conceal it. The chronometer said 0530. Half an hour to kill before he had to report to the Shenandoah. The Klingon needed to get a glimpse of the glorious woman he would be fighting for and maybe dying for. He knelt before their wedding photo, resting as always on the nightstand. Jadzia's smile went directly to his heart. She had been so happy on the day they were finally able to marry. After the ceremony, she had pulled him away from the crowds at the reception into a shadowy, secluded corner. There she had gently laid her fingers on the abrasions on his face, inflicted when O'Brien and Bashir performed the ritual attack after the completion of their vows. Where no one could see, she had quietly proclaimed with tears streaming down her bruised cheeks how glad she was that they were finally together and how she loved him so much she felt like she was going to explode with exhilaration and passion. Worf, unaccustomed to such an unbridled emotional display from her, had taken her into his arms and just held her, a beautifully intimate moment as a romantic song serenaded them in the background. He knew Jadzia understood.  
The outlines of the bulkheads seemed clearer this morning, the corners of everything in the corridor seemed sharper. The Klingon hadn't felt this aware and alive in a long time. He was prepared for anything. Sisko and O'Brien were waiting for him at the airlock. O'Brien greeted him with,  
"Everything checks out fine, Commander. The cloaking device installed perfectly. You're good to go."  
"Thank you, Chief." Greatly relieved at seeing no one else around, Worf turned to Sisko and asked,   
"Will I be making the trip alone, sir?" The captain nodded.  
"Yes. At first we had planned for Ensign Shelby to accompany you in case you ran into any problems removing the relay or the cloaking device started to give you any trouble, but then the chief here and I gave it some thought and decided to limit the team to one person in case the cloak didn't shield the runabout completely. One life sign would be easier to hide than two or three."  
"Agreed." They stepped aside to give him access to the airlock. Sisko clapped him on the shoulder as he passed.  
"Good luck, Mr. Worf." The Klingon nodded in acknowledgment and continued into the runabout, hearing the cogged door separating the station from the section of transition between the runabout's outer airlock and DS9's inner one roll closed. He sat in the passenger's seat in the main portion of the tiny craft, opening a communications channel with Ops.  
"This is the Shenandoah requesting departure clearance," he said to the console. It has begun, Jadzia. You will be honored. I love you, parmach'kai. Wish me luck. But then again, I was the luckiest man in the universe for a while. I was married to you.   
"Request confirmed," Nog's voice informed him. "You are cleared for departure, Shenandoah. Good luck, Commander. DS9 out." Worf shifted chairs and sat in the pilot's seat. As his fingers darted over the console, maneuvering the ship around the upper docking pylons, he experienced a touch of déjà vu towards his surroundings. He and Jadzia had taken this same runabout on their mission to Soukara such a short time ago. They had settled into the two chairs, barely awake, and headed off to rescue a defecting Cardassian with no idea whatsoever that the outcome of their task would change their lives forever. / "Kira to Worf." The station's first officer, then still a major, jerked the Klingon rudely out of a deep, sound slumber with her voice over the comm system. Reluctant to move, he remained motionless for a moment. Jadzia had also heard Kira, he discovered, when she rolled out of her comfortable position with her head on his shoulder and her arm draped across his chest to let him sit up. Too bad. He had considered ignoring the comm and going back to sleep, not willing to interrupt a deliciously satisfying night with Jadzia with the thought of work. Slowly, he forced himself up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. It was cold out from under the covers and away from his wife. With a sigh, he tapped the comm link on the bedside table and responded,  
"Worf here." This had better be good, the drowsy Klingon thought.  
"Sorry to bother you, Commander," apologized Kira, "but I need to see you and Jadzia in the captain's office immediately." Damn.   
"We're on our way." Worf sprang up immediately after signing off, expecting the lovely Trill in whose arms he spent every night to follow his example. But she just rolled over again and burrowed under the pillow, throwing an arm over the top of it. He turned and regarded her slender form, outlined under their blanket, with adoration and a trace of exasperation. But it was hard to be impatient with her after last night.  
"Jadzia, get up!" he scolded. At the sound of his voice, the covers were thrown over her head with a muffled,  
"I'm coming!" even though it was obvious she was not. Seizing the edge of the blanket, he whipped it off the bed, leaving Jadzia exposed to the brisk air in the bedroom. Startled, she yelped, "Hey!" Worf tossed her a uniform, at the same time admiring her magnificent figure.   
"You heard Kira."  
"I hate you," she grumbled, trying to hide her grin. Leave it to duty to ruin a perfectly good morning of sleeping in. / Worf hadn't been despising the war that much up until that runabout trip. On the way to Soukara, Jadzia had brought up the subject of their honeymoon. She desperately wanted a vacation, a break from the bloodshed and despair, and Worf couldn't say he blamed her. When a discussion ensued over where they were to go, the Klingon eagerly suggested camping and sightseeing in the rugged wilderness, craving action and physical exercise. This disgusted Jadzia, who wanted to be waited on hand and foot and felt she deserved it. She craved "room service. I want to be pampered. I want a staff to cater to our every whim. I want to be embarrassed by the size of our room. I want a balcony with a view that would make you want to break down and cry from the sheer beauty of it all. And I don't want to suffer from anything except guilt about our complete self-indulgence." That had taken care of Worf's suggestion of hiking across Vulcan's Forge. When he assumed with much trepidation that she wanted to go to Risa, the Trill had slyly produced a PADD containing information about "Casperia Prime, the vacation capital of the Hovarian Cluster." To Jadzia's surprise, he had instantly agreed. She wondered why he was being so compliant and was answered with a slightly insulted claim that he had to make some changes now that they were married. That discussion had continued throughout the entire mission. Worf even blamed himself for the fact that Jadzia was shot and almost fatally wounded by a Jem'Hadar patrol. Even as she lay, bleeding and in agony in spite of the painkillers, she had tried to convince him that it wasn't his fault, that without the use of their tricorders they had no way to detect the approaching enemy. They couldn't have known that they were setting up camp right in the path of the Jem'Hadar; it was merely a very unlucky coincidence. And deep down, he knew that. But somehow he couldn't convince himself. If he hadn't been trying to be playful with her as they snuggled together, trying to ward off the cool temperature of a night on Soukara, if he had been keeping watch like a good Starfleet officer should, then Jadzia wouldn't have been injured. Worf would never have intentionally hurt Jadzia. The Klingon would have gladly died a slow and painful death rather than see her suffer. It had been a liberating relief when Doctor Bashir told him she was going to make a full recovery from the phaser blast wound. He had gone into the operating room then in the back of the infirmary and sat by her side, holding her cool hand gently in his own and just watching her sleep. At that time he couldn't have imagined losing her, couldn't ideate life without her. But now it was all too real. The next time she'd had to lay on one of Bashir's biobeds had been her last. Now she was gone, pulled from his embrace forever, and nothing could be done about it.   
  
That night, back on DS9, Captain Sisko was getting ready to go to sleep in his quarters. His new wife, Kasidy, was curled on her side of the bed, hugging her pillow as she dozed peacefully. Sisko wouldn't have minded a little snuggling, but he had just gotten back from Ops to find her asleep and didn't want to wake her. She hadn't been getting much sleep lately, she'd told him that morning, and was going to see Doctor Bashir for a sedative. He was just stripping off his uniform shirt when Major Kira's voice blared over their quarters' comm system.  
"Kira to Sisko." He sighed and wriggled back into his shirt, noting with dismay as he did so that Kasidy was shifting beneath the covers, probably waking up thanks to the Bajoran colonel.  
"Sisko here."  
"Sorry to interrupt you, sir, but you've got an incoming transmission in Ops."  
"Patch it through to my quarters, then," he directed. Kira paused.  
"I don't think that's such a good idea, sir. You should probably come back up." Kasidy was fully awake now, had rolled over, and was regarding him with some curiosity. Sisko frowned. "Why? Who is the message from?"  
"Weyoun, sir." He responded immediately,  
"I'll be right there. Sisko out." As soon as he had signed off, he went to Kasidy and hugged her. "Sorry to wake you, Kas. I'll see you later, okay?"  
"Okay." On his way to the door, her voice, still laced with the last traces of the sleeping aid Bashir had given her, stopped him.  
"Ben, what do you think Weyoun wants?" He gave her a reassuring smile.  
"Don't you worry about it. It's probably nothing important." She nodded and lay down again, pulling the blankets up to her chin, but Sisko knew she didn't buy it. A transmission from the Vorta, or anyone from the Dominion, for that matter, was always bad news. He got to Ops as fast as he could, cursing the turbolift, which seemed excruciatingly slow even though it was functioning within normal parameters. Kira greeted him with a somber look.  
"In my office, Colonel."  
"Yes, sir." As he crossed the room and went up the stairs to his office overlooking Ops, he could see in his periphery the Bajoran working her console to transfer the transmission to the small screen on his desk. He sat down and waited until the Vorta's all- too- familiar face appeared.   
"Ah, Captain Sisko," he crooned in that annoyingly calm voice of his. "What a pleasure to see you again."  
"What do you want?" Sisko had no intention of playing games with Weyoun. Thankfully, he got right to the point.  
"We have reason to believe that the Federation is harboring a Dominion traitor." Sisko frowned, confused.   
"I'm not aware of any traitor in our space." Weyoun smiled.  
"Of course you would make excuses," he answered calmly, managing to insult Sisko even as he tried to be diplomatic. "But this is a serious matter. We want this man back."  
"Who?" It might help if I knew who the hell you're talking about, thought the captain.  
"Gul Dukat." Sisko leaned forward.  
"What?"  
"You heard me." Attempting now to hide his surprise, Deep Space Nine's captain replied,  
"I thought Dukat had come begging to you for a ship and was given one. Am I to believe that the Dominion made a mistake in recommissioning one of its former officers?" He couldn't resist slipping a caustic taunt in there. Weyoun's ice-blue eyes blazed angrily.  
"Dukat was deceptive as always. Besides, it was Gul Damar's decision to give him a ship. I don't know how his mind works, but he is trustworthy and he had a good excuse for allowing Dukat back into the ranks of the Dominion." Sisko had to restrain from laughing out loud. Weyoun trusted Damar as far as he could throw him, which wasn't a very great distance. He asked merely,  
"Which is?" The Vorta paused, unwilling to admit that he had been left out of any pivotal decisions concerning the war or the Dominion.  
"I was not privy to Damar's reasoning."   
"I want to talk to Damar, then."  
"Damar is not currently on Cardassia Prime." Oh, well. Back to the original conversation.  
"What makes you think we're hiding Dukat and his ship?" Weyoun wore a smile that said you can't deny this one.  
"While monitoring transmissions inside Dominion space recently, we discovered a message was being sent from Dukat's ship, the Vor'Nak, to your station. Specifically, to Commander Worf."  
"Commander Worf hasn't informed me of any incoming transmissions from Dukat." Maybe Weyoun is telling the truth, Sisko mused mentally. Worf has been acting pretty strange lately. The Vorta gave an ugly chuckle.  
"Do you think he would, Captain? I suggest you check his log." Sisko stiffened.  
"I am not in the habit of invading my officers' personal space," he said coldly.  
"Well," Weyoun said with a grim smile, "maybe you should make an exception. Good day, Captain." With that he signed off, the comm screen going black and then displaying the Federation emblem. Sisko sat back in his chair, stunned. Was it possible? Worf helping Dukat? The Klingon despised him more then anyone he had ever known. Dukat had murdered his wife. Why should the Cardassian receive any assistance from him? Then he forced himself to think about Worf more deeply. He was in every way loyal to Sisko, the Federation, and the Klingon Empire. There was no way he would betray them. Well, there was only one way to find out. As much as he hated to do it, going through Worf's communication log was the only method he could think of to confirm his and Weyoun's suspicions. The turnout of the war might depend on it. He stood up and, straightening his shirt, walked out into Ops. He offered no clue to what the Vorta might have said. The disappointment on the faces of his officers was evident as he passed. They were obviously dying to know what had gone on in his office. Of course they wouldn't ask. Sisko got into the turbolift and took hold of a support rail.  
"Habitat ring." With that he sunk out of sight.   
  
Worf's chin touched his chest for what must have been at least the fourth time in an hour. He jerked his head up, forcing himself not to doze off. Maybe putting the runabout on autopilot for the whole trip wasn't such a good idea. If he didn't watch the controls studiously, he might miss a crucial readout or scan result. The Klingon sat up straight and took control of the helm. Turning to the side, he conducted a long-range scan of the area. No Dominion ships in sight. Next he said loudly,  
"Computer, ETA."  
"Twenty-eight minutes." Since he had some time to spare, Worf decided that this would be a good time to test the cloaking device. Tapping the appropriate buttons on the tactical section of the console, he engaged the cloak and saw a slight shimmer over the front viewscreen. Before he could congratulate himself, the computer emitted a shrill beep that drew his attention to the scan results. A Breen scout ship was approaching on his port side. Perfect. It could assist him with his trial run without posing too much of a threat if the cloak didn't work. As the ship drew closer, the klaxon screeched more frantically. Annoyed with it, Worf punched the controls as if the noise might alert the Breen vessel to his presence. When it fell silent, he returned his gaze to the viewscreen. The ship caught up to and crossed in front of his runabout uneventfully. The Klingon grinned to himself, disengaged the cloak, and adjusted the runabout's speed to warp three. Sooner than he had expected, the familiar but yet eerily haunting shape of Empok Nor, so like Deep Space Nine, appeared first on the sensors and then on the viewscreen. He docked and went aboard with a small tool kit, going first to the deserted Ops command center of the station. Tensing as the turbolift surfaced onto the level, he immediately reprimanded himself for being foolish. Somehow he had expected to find a crew of decomposing corpses waiting for him, whether it be a Cardassian crew or his stationmates with whom he spent each day on DS9. At the Main Operations Table, he programmed the computer to broadcast a stationwide message alerting him to the presence of Dominion ships if any came into the area. If their ships happened to be passing by, they would no doubt scan the station for any signs of life. Upon finding a single Klingon and a runabout with a Starfleet signature, they would want to pay a visit to see what he was up to in their space. Worf wanted to be ready for them. That done, he went to the Jeffries tube in the habitat ring that led to the central computer core. His large, muscular frame did not slide through the narrow conduit easily, causing him to almost get stuck many times until he finally reached the heart of the station. The access door slid open easily, the many alarms and sensors that were in place on Deep Space Nine silent and inactive. Worf was not intimidated by the mindless jumble of wires and components that lay inside. Even though he now was a command officer, he had worked as an engineer on the Enterprise and knew exactly what he was doing. He pulled a flux decoupler out of his tool kit and reached into the core. Times like this made him feel like a surgeon. Every tiny move had to be made with the utmost caution and precision, or else something inside the patient would rupture. The Klingon's meaty hand crept past the various inoperative alarms, isolinear chips, and relays until he was able to touch the master differential relay that controlled the weapons system of this once mighty, hulking station. He turned on the flux decoupler and touched it to the end of the relay that merged with the main computer. The flow of energy was instantly severed, accompanied by a humming noise that Worf hadn't even been able to differentiate from the others earlier that became louder and then ceased. The opposite end of the relay interfaced with the targeting relay, which in turn joined the main computer. When it again came in contact with the glowing end of the engineering tool, it gave an irritated buzz and fell silent. Now Worf could safely remove it without fear of injury. The master differential relay just fit in his palm when he extricated it from the rest of the components. He contemplated it with a sense of almost pride. Chief O'Brien had given him a small padded case before he left DS9. Extracting that case, he carefully placed the relay into it and snapped it shut with a satisfied smile. One might have thought that, as a Klingon, he wouldn't have hands nearly gentle enough for such meticulous work. But Worf could be as gentle as anyone with his hands, as Jadzia had discovered on many occasions. His moment of victory was shattered like a dropped champagne goblet when the distinct feminine voice of Empok Nor's computer informed him,  
"Dominion ships approaching." Worf bolted upright from his kneeling position in front of the open access panel and slammed the cover back on.  
"How many?" he barked as he stuffed his tools and the relay in its protective case into their box, sparsely decorated with a shiny stripe and comm badge emblem.   
"Two Jem'Hadar, one Cardassian." Cramming himself into the impossibly small conduit once more, he wiggled back the direction he had come.   
"ETA?"  
"Ten minutes." Worf cursed the unemphatic voice of the computer for not giving him more notice, then himself for forgetting to tell it to. When he was out of his claustrophobic maze-like prison, he hurriedly replaced the door and ran at a full-out sprint. He was almost to the turbolift when he caught sight of something he had not seen before. A large painted canvas adhered to the wall, featuring a life-size representation of the person- if he really was a man and not a demon- who he was out here to destroy. Dukat, wearing a red armband, standing with open arms outstretched to a congregation of Bajoran men, women and children. They were embracing him, faces upturned to him with adoring smiles, reaching for the spiritual guidance that he had convinced these poor people he could give to them as the intermediary between them and their false gods, the Pagh'Wraiths. The Cardassian's welcoming, seemingly benevolent smile made Worf's lip curl in disgust. Dukat didn't give a damn what happened to his gullible followers; he just wanted to be worshipped and looked up to as a superior. With a shout of anger, Worf clutched the canvas in both hands, tore it from the wall, and ripped it in half, wishing fervently that it was really Dukat's miserable body he was splicing in two instead of a mere painting. He remained motionless for a moment, holding the ruined mural, looking at the face of his enemy. Where are you, you greedy, self-centered bastard? I'll find you, I swear I will. And then I'll kill you. I'll make you pay. You'll never regret anything more than the moment you even came near my Jadzia. The Klingon dropped the two pieces of the painting and ran to the turbolift, announcing,  
"Upper pylon two," without giving his handiwork a second glance. The lift whisked him to the base of the gargantuan arm protruding upwards from the docking ring. Then it began to ascend, occasionally passing a tiny window allowing him a view of the starry expanse and the charcoal-black void of the unforgiving vacuum outside. Worf's heart was pounding like a sledgehammer now.  
"Computer, ETA of Dominion ships?"  
"Four minutes." When the lift finally halted and opened its doors, he shot out and up the small flight of steps into the Shenandoah. Dropping his bag of tools on the floor in the back of the runabout, he flung himself into the pilot's seat and disengaged the docking clamps. The runabout withdrew from the tip of the pylon and pivoted agilely in the direction of Deep Space Nine, leaving Empok Nor behind as it shimmered out of sight, concealed by the cloak. If only Worf had been just a few seconds faster. The Dominion ships came into range, and their sensors picked up the Shenandoah as it faded from existence. Laying in what they hoped was his course, they gave pursuit.  
  
Sisko felt extremely guilty as he stood outside Worf's quarters, taking a last glance around to make sure no one was watching. When he had confirmed that no one was nearby, he said under his breath,  
"Computer, override lock, authorization Sisko-theta-six-gamma." The door obediently slid aside with a whoosh, and the captain slipped inside. Sisko immediately wanted to leave, not liking the feeling of being a trespasser. He respected the privacy of his crew, more than anyone Worf. It seemed especially disrespectful for some reason, knowing he had been married as well. And add to that Jadzia's death... At the moment Sisko considered himself scum. Don't touch anything, he told himself. Just read his comm logs and get out. Knowing the Klingon wasn't going to come in and see him here didn't make it any easier. He couldn't help glancing around as he crossed the room to the small communications console. Remnants of Jadzia were everywhere. Their two gleaming silver bat'leths, mounted on the wall, one over the other. Jadzia's was on the top set of hooks. He remembered how they had used to joke about that. Whoever had won the last combat in the holosuite got the privilege of hanging their weapon the highest, exhibiting superiority. It somehow seemed right, respectful, that the Trill's be on top. A picture of the two of them on Risa, before they had married, sat on the tabletop. Jadzia and Worf were standing on a sandy beach, backdropped by a gorgeous purple and orange sunset. Jadzia had her arms wrapped around her husband-to-be's neck and was leaning into him, laughing. The Klingon had his arms encircling her waist and was gazing down at her with a smile on his face and such an expression of adoration in his eyes that Sisko was choked up with emotion and sorrow, both for Worf's loss and his own. Curzon had been his best friend. He had never recovered from the death of the wisest, wittiest person he had ever known. Then there had been Jadzia, different from her predecessor but in many ways identical. They shared a love of all things Klingon and an unquenchable thirst for adventure. She had been her own person, too, and he loved her for it. Now she was gone as well, and Ezri had the Dax symbiont. She was completely contradictory to the two wonderful souls who had come before her. Quiet, shy, inexperienced, he felt more of a fatherly, protective instinct towards her than anything else. If something happened to her he didn't know what he would do. He could only take so many losses of people named Dax.  
Sisko accessed his tactical officer's communication records without much difficulty. Nothing showed up at first except a few transmissions to others on DS9 and some messages from acquaintances on Qo'Nos. He almost missed the blinking light at the bottom of the screen that indicated an unread message. Under the "sender" display column, the screen said only "unknown source." That must be the telltale transmission. As an afterthought, he glanced at the time the message had been received. 0700 that morning. One hour after Worf had departed.  
  
The master differential relay checked out perfectly. Amazing, really. Worf would have suspected that that would have been one of the first things the Cardassians had sabotaged before they pulled out. It had probably been booby-trapped as well, but Garak had disarmed any surprises on an earlier mission. The Klingon put the component back in its case and snapped it shut, replacing it in the case and the case on the console. His task wasn't yet complete, though. He obviously would not be going back to the station, but he had to deliver the relay to them before venturing deeper into Dominion territory to seek out Dukat. Worf scanned his mental accumulation of experiences for anything that might help him solve this problem. Surprisingly this answer came to him not from his service on the Enterprise, but from a more recent event during his posting on DS9. It had probably been about a year and a half ago that the Defiant had been transporting the Orb of Time to Bajor and had taken on another passenger who had turned out to be a Klingon in disguise, his intent being to go back in time and kill Captain James T. Kirk of the first Enterprise. When the Orb took him back into the past, the Defiant and everyone aboard went too. To stop the Klingon would-be-murderer, who had planted a bomb inside an adorable, fuzzy, innocent-looking tribble, the crew had had to beam onto the Enterprise and the nearby space station, K-7, without being detected. They had succeeded by finding gaps in the scan cycles of both the ship and the station, decloaking, and beaming over in teams of two, all within the allowance of two seconds. Worf intended to use that tactic now. He would come within range of DS9, drop his cloak, and beam the relay into Ops, then go to warp and get the hell out of there before they had a chance to detect the theta radiation from the Shenandoah's nacelles.   
Unexpectedly, a warning light began to flash on the tactical console, along with another klaxon. The Dominion ships were tracking him! He knew the cloak was in place, so they couldn't see him. They must have detected the runabout just as he left Empok Nor, probably relying on pure estimation now to keep their headings in accordance with his. The long-range sensors proclaimed that he was about eight minutes from Deep Space Nine. Those eight minutes seemed like an eternity until the station finally came into view.  
  
In Ops, Ensign Nog looked up, alarmed, from his sensor readings and called to Kira,  
"Colonel, I'm picking up three Dominion ships headed our way: one Cardassian and two Jem'Hadar."  
"Just what we need. Inform the captain," Kira groaned. The ensign hit his comm badge, but the Bajoran didn't hear his words.   
" Red alert. Shields up. Power to-." She almost said "weapons", then stopped, horrified, as the klaxons around them began to flash and howl. What a time for a visit from the Dominion. They had no master differential relay to route the station's power to phasers and torpedoes. Deep Space Nine was defenseless! Somehow they had gotten word of DS9's disadvantage and decided to make their move. "Battlestations," she finished. Then, trying to appear calm for the sake of the crew, she noticed Ezri, who was at the Main Operations Table on the verge of tears. She went to the Trill and squeezed her shoulder gently, asking, "Are you all right?" Embarrassed at being caught, Ezri looked up.  
"I'm fine. I just have this feeling."  
"What kind of feeling?"  
"About Worf. I think something's happened to him. Or is going to happen, anyway." Kira frowned.  
"How can you know that?" A wistful edge slipped into Ezri's voice.  
"I was his wife, Nerys. I know. Worf's in trouble."  
  
"Ops to Captain Sisko." Sisko jumped at Nog's voice, thinking at first that the Ferengi was standing right behind him. The silence in Jadzia and Worf's- no, just Worf's now- quarters was unnerving, as was the knowledge that what he was doing was wrong.   
"Sisko here," he responded, trying to sound nonchalant.   
"Three Dominion ships are approaching, sir." He should have been grateful for the diversion, a reason to get out of there and avoid this unpleasant task, but suddenly the captain felt committed and wanted desperately to finish what he'd started.  
"Thank you, Ensign. I'll be there shortly."  
"Very well, sir. Ops out." Sisko turned back to the monitor and accessed the unread message.  
  
Deep Space Nine loomed up ahead now, a megalithic sentinel guarding Bajor and the wormhole. Worf was sweating, fat droplets of moisture that dampened the back of his neck and dripped, stinging, into his eyes. The master differential relay in its Starfleet case was already waiting on the transporter pad, at the touch of Worf's fingers to dematerialize and be beamed over to Ops. The only problem, the Klingon discovered when he scanned the station, was that their shields were up and they weren't running any scan cycles! The console told him that the Dominion ships were gaining rapidly. Now it was time to think fast. Their shields might be able to be brought down for a split second if he fired a photon torpedo at the underside of the station, directly beneath Ops, where the shields were weakest. Worf wasn't worried about them fighting back, for he had the one key element that they needed to do so: the relay. He had qualms, though, about firing on an unarmed Federation station- his own post, for that matter- and possibly leaving them helpless and at the mercy of the Dominion. But if he didn't, there would be no way to transport the relay on board, and everyone would be in even more trouble. Setting himself to the task, Worf positioned himself at the transporter console in the middle of the runabout, rerouting all other controls there also. His stomach lurched along with the ship as the Shenandoah dived underneath Deep Space Nine, dropped its cloak, and simultaneously fired a torpedo at the most vulnerable part of the station. The relay left the transporter pad in a golden column of energy and molecules. An explosion illuminated the blackness, and for an instant, Worf thought about Ezri.  
  
DS9 rocked with the unexpected force of the photon torpedo. Colonel Kira stumbled and grabbed the Main Operations Table for balance.  
"Shields down!" someone yelled.  
"What the hell? Nog, who's firing?" The Ferengi's eyes were almost as wide as his ears.  
"A ship just decloaked beneath us, sir! A Federation ship, a runabout! The sensors only picked it up for a moment, but I think it was the Shenandoah!" Ezri drew in a choking breath. Kira gasped,  
"What?" Just then the transporter began to whine, and something shimmered into existence. The colonel whipped her phaser out of its holster, but it wasn't a person that appeared on the pad when the beam had solidified. It was a small box with a Starfleet emblem.  
  
The station shuddered around Captain Sisko as he scanned the first line of the message. It was from Gul Dukat.  
  
Worf reactivated the cloak as soon as the relay was completely gone from the transporter pad. Seeing the brief fluctuation of color over the front viewscreen made him feel more at ease. But his problems weren't yet over. The Klingon maneuvered the runabout in a twisting dance around the lower docking pylons and back the way he had come, going to warp four and darting underneath his pursuers. The persistent Dominion vessels turned after him, still following close behind like hunting dogs, nostrils flooded with the scent of their prey's blood.  
  
Chief O'Brien bounded up to the box that had mysteriously materialized just seconds before. He examined it and then announced to Kira, who had leapt up to stand beside him,  
"I gave this case to Worf for the relay." Ezri broke in,  
"Well, that was obviously Worf! Why did he fire on us? What's he doing?"  
"I don't know." Nog proclaimed, with more than a touch of relief in his voice,  
"The Dominion ships are turning around! They're going back the other way!" O'Brien popped the case open with his thumb. It contained a weapons master differential relay.  
  
Sisko closed his disbelieving eyes for a moment, then opened them and reread the message, which consisted of only two sentences: No sacrifice is in vain. You'll understand soon.   
  
So far, so good, the exuberant Klingon thought with a bit of bloodlust as he grinned victoriously, sure that this success was a sign of future predominance. The Cardassian ship had begun to fire random shots into space around him, hoping to find a target. So far they'd had no success, since he'd been evading the crippling bursts. His celebratory mood was ruined with a single phaser blast from the lead Jem'Hadar vessel. They'd located the runabout! Damn it! Jadzia always was a better pilot than I was! A second hit, then a third, shook the tiny craft, throwing Worf to the floor. The Klingon struggled to his feet as smoke poured out of a vent in the cabin towards the rear of the ship. Upon touching his face, his fingers came away smeared with hot, crimson blood. Everything seemed to happen at once after that. The cloak shimmered and failed, damaged by the last direct hit. Klaxons screamed defeat, clouds of smoke and tongues of flame shot out of ruined consoles. Worf pounded the control panel in front of him in frustration, then whirled around as a transporter beam announced the arrival of three Jem'Hadar soldiers, all armed to the teeth with raised phaser rifles. The Klingon reached for his own weapon, clipped into the holster at his hip. Before he could get off a shot, the leftmost Jem'Hadar fired directly into his chest. Worf's lungs were on fire, his whole body plunged into an insane chasm of flame and stabbing agony and cacophonous noise. I'm sorry, Jadzia, was his last thought before the chaos faded away to oblivion. I failed you, parmach'kai. I'm sorry....   
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
